A String of Pearls
by Spoilers-Sweetie913
Summary: It shouldn't be surprising that Sherlock has no problem saying what is bothering her or what is on her mind. Somehow, John is still repeatedly shocked by this. Fem!Sherlock. Johnlock at the end.
1. A little too much information

Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock or any of its precious characters or actors.

* * *

1.

John has known Sherlock for over two years now, and he has learned quite a lot about her in those years. John had observed that she has a multi-faceted personality that can shift at the drop of a hat. One minute, she's quietly entranced with whatever the hell she has under her microscope, and the next, she's flung out on the couch scratching horribly at her violin. Sometimes she and John will be having decent conversation for once, and then BAM!, she's ensconced in her bloody mind palace! Then there is the fact that she has no qualms about leaving the flat a mess, not to mention the disaster of a bedroom, but her closet is the cleanest room I the whole building; bursting with clothes, but ordered to perfection.

John has been able to adjust to these quicksilver mood changes, surprisingly. However, there is one thing about Sherlock that John has not been able to get used to, and he doesn't think he ever would. That one aspect of Sherlock that constantly baffled John was Sherlock's utter lack of tact concerning herself. It belies the superior persona she oozes. It seemingly contradicts her perfectly tailored suits and consummate curls. Just thinking about it tends to make John's head a bit.

One moment that sticks out in John's mind of Sherlock's modesty-impaired behavior, and it was as he was returning home from work.

Closing the downstairs door behind him, John hesitated at. The threshold of the flat. Upstairs, he could hear stomping around and slamming doors.

John wondered what it was this time that got Sherlock into such an angry state. Cursing his curiosity and need to pacify the irate detective, John bravely went upstairs and silently let himself into the flat- no need to alarm her of his sudden appearance, he'd just slip up to his room to let the worst of her anger work itself out of her system.

John had just hung up his coat and was in the process of toe-ing off his shoes when Whirlwind Sherlock rounded the corner and, fury alight in her bright blue-green eyes and making her hair appear to stand on end, vibrating with electricity. "Where have you been?" she seethed.

John froze, one foot still behind the other, prepped to take off his remaining shoe. "I-uh-what? I was at work. What's wrong?"

Sherlock continued her diatribe, choosing to not answer John directly, "You mean you didn't stop at the store?"

John stared at her, only slightly confused. This has happened before, Sherlock wanting something from the store while John was out and still proceed to request her desires to the empty flat, but never had she been outrageously and unreasonably mad about it. He shook his head in answer,

"Well why not?! I bloody well asked you to."

That's what he thought. Still, he felt the need to argue this point yet again. "I've been gone since this morning, Sherlock. I can't get what you want if you don't let me know ahead of time. Speaking it out loud doesn't automatically mean that it will make its way to my ears." Sherlock's anger was starting to rile John up a bit. He was already tired from having to deal with senile old men thinking they needed another flu shot because the one they got a month ago 'Must have worn off by now', he can't start a full-blown argument with Sherlock about inane things now when all he wanted was to take a hot shower. He had to keep a calm head because if he rose to her level of upset and didn't complete the argument, Sherlock would begin a late night concerto of atrocious proportions.

"You should have known that I'd need you to go to the store by now! Do you have no idea what today is? Or any week it is for that matter?"

John sighed, deciding to acquiesce instead of reminding the sodding genius that everyone wasn't a mind-reader. "What do you need?" John asked as he slipped his shoe back on and reached for his coat.

"Nooo... It's too much of an inconvenience now isn't it? There's no way any sane person could ask you to go out after you just got back." The sarcasm dripping from her every syllable was practically visible.

"My god, Sherlock's! What is your problem? I just told you I'd go out. What do you need? Just tell me." John's patience slipping away very quickly.

"My problem? You want to know what my problem is? My damn uterus is

falling out of my vagina, and it feels as though it's tearing up every muscle in my lower back on its way out! My back hurts, my vagina hurts, I'm bleeding gallons, and frankly, I don't like your attitudes!" She hurled at him, barely taking pause to breathe between gruesome sentences.

The graphic detail to which John's mind was just assaulted with made all the blood drain from his face. That was way too much information than was necessary. He should have guessed this would happen sooner or later though. Usually, Sherlock was so in command of her body. She never let her biology get the better of her. It seems that this month is when she loses it, when she succumbs 'womanly nature'.

Once John's surprise was over, it was quickly replaced with a righteous anger of his own. "Dammit Sherlock! Just because because you're on your damn period, it doesn't give you the right to talk to me like I'm garbage! You don't get to use your biology as an excuse to treat me however the hell you wish and expect me to be sympathetic about it and accept your excuses! Sometimes I can't help but feel that if it weren't for that fact that we both need help renting this place, I'd find one on my own." John finished, slightly winded, trying to calm himself down in case he needed the energy to continue if this turned into a domestic of epic proportions.

What he was not expecting, however, was for Sherlock's eyes to suddenly well with tears and her lip to start trembling.

Just as fast as John's anger appeared, it vanished. He hesitantly stepped forward, wondering if Sherlock needed, or even wanted, physical comforting. She decided that for him when she stepped forward and pressed her face to John's shoulder. He automatically brought his arms up to rub her back soothingly.

Although he knew that his outburst was justified, he felt the overwhelming need to apologize. "I'm sorry. What's wrong?"

"I don't like it when you yell at me. Please don't move out," she snuffled, passing the back her her hand across her eyes, and a couple tears fell.

"Oh. Well... I'm sorry. And no, of course I won't move out," he soothed. Needless to say, he went out to Tesco's, bought her feminine products, and some over-the-counter pain reliever. Without even thinking about it, he snagged a box of Sherlock's favorite biscuits and some hot chocolate on the way out.

Maybe Sherlock won't be so violent and disturbingly informative about this next month if John was extremely understanding this month.

* * *

So this is my first story. So any reviews will be appreciated. This is going to be a four-part story. Beta'd by the wonderful RavenclawWhovian. Thanks a million(:


	2. A new style

Another time Sherlock's forward-ness had created another awkward situation happened a few months later.

Sherlock rushed out of her room, phone in hand, grabbing her coat on her way to the door. She barely manage to yell, "Case!" In John's direction before practically throwing herself down the stairs. It happened once before, and it wasn't pretty, although a twisted ankle and a black eye weren't enough to keep Sherlock from a double homicide, locked-room mystery. John cringed at the memory and cried out, "Be careful, for Christ's sake!" just as the downstairs door slammed open against the doorframe.

John heaved himself out of his oh-so-comfortable armchair and rushed to catch up with Sherlock, glad that he had already had his shoes on because Sherlock was likely to leave him if he wasn't quick in the state that she was in. That had also happened before, sadly. Every time it happened, John was forced to text Sherlock, or even Lestrade, for directions to the crime scene and catch his own cab.

Luckily, Sherlock was still in the curb. It seemed that her magic ability to call a taxi out of thin air was not working today. She huffed out a great sigh of frustration, and waved her arm a little higher, doing a little hip wiggle as she did, the adjusted the waistband of her trousers.

John noticed this in confusion, but mostly amusement, and then forgot all about it when Sherlock finally procured a cab and rushed inside. She had almost slammed the door shut behind her if John had not had the forethought to catch the door in time and shove Sherlock over to the other side of the seat as he climbed in.

"So what's it rank?" John asked, looking into Sherlock's vivid blue-green eyes that were positively alight with excitement.

"An eight, John. An eight! Ugh, we haven't been on a case higher than a five in ages. It's Christmas, I swear it this time." she beamed, head rolling against the back of the seat, slightly crushing the curls in her perfect ponytail.

John resolved himself to staring out the window as they crossed London to whatever godforsaken crime that had taken place that made Sherlock absolutely gleeful. Surely nothing good, but still John was a little excited himself. An eight on Sherlock's scale was bound to be at least a fifteen on his own.

About ten minutes later, the cab was almost to a stop when Sherlock left from its confines and practically ran towards the alleyway with not two of three, but SIX bodies strewn about in a peculiar fashion. John huffed and paid the cabbie; something that happened so often frequently it was basically the standard now. Then he walked to the crime scene calmly like a normal person.

As usual, Sherlock was gliding about as if she owned the place. Or as if it were a stage, and this was her play to direct, telling people what to do and when to do it. The glint in her eye was one John easily recognized. She had a few theories, and the case was upholding its previous eight ranking. It would take at least three days to crack and Sherlock would revel in every moment of it.

She took a few long strides around two of the bodies and paused to wiggle and fix her trousers for the second time. John, remembering the little dance from before, stifled a giggle that, surprisingly, went unnoticed by Sherlock.

Lestrade approached John with two cups of coffee, one just to John's liking, and started up a conversation as they watched Sherlock work the crime scene like a runway. One of the best things about Sherlock working everything out in her head before spewing it all out in the open was that it gave John the time to get to know the Detective Inspector. He really was a great guy, has a wonderful sense of humor. Plus, their shared experience of dealing with Sherlock meant that they always had something interesting to talk about.

Sherlock happened to do her wiggle-dance again within Lestrade's eyesight, and it caught his attention. Where John just chose to ignore it, Lestrade decided to ask about it. "Alright, Sherlock? Ants in your pants?" he smiled.

"Nope. Just a new style of underwear, if you must know. They keep ridding up, and I haven't figured out how to stop it yet. Now, if you'll please shut up, I can continue. Thanks." she stated matter-of-factly, as if she were speaking to a best girlfriend or a sister, not to the better part of Scotland Yard.

John, Lestrade, Anderson, and all of the other male officers went still, slightly in shock at her bluntness. John's face, he knew, would be redder than a tomato; Lestrade, paused with his coffee halfway to his mouth which was gaping open slight; and Anderson, who it seemed had stopped breathing. Sally snorted, knowing exactly how Sherlock felt. She kicked at Anderson to get him moving again. Lestrade tried to restrain his chuckles, but let them out while he shook his head in disbelief. John just heaved a long-suffer sigh.

Lestrade turned to John, a huge grin plastered to his face and said, "No modesty that one," and clapped John on the back as he walked passed him towards Sherlock for a walk-through of the crime.


	3. Modesty is the best policy

Once again, when John arrived home from Bart's, he could hear Sherlock thundering around upstairs. John grimaced, remembering the last time she was in a strop.

Drawing in a deep breath, John braved the stairs heading to the flat. Once he neared closer to the door, he could hear Sherlock's angry voice, along with the quiet murmur of another familiar voice.

Uh-oh, John thought. This is worse than menstrual crankiness. So much worse that John almost turned around instead of entering into the ensuring chaos inside, but he drew in another breath and prepared to step into battle.

The flat showed clear signs of Sherlock-related frustration: stacks of book toppled, an upended, and thankfully empty, tea cup, case files strewn about, the sofa cushions in a disarray, and some of Sherlock's more lavish dresses lying around. The cause of Sherlock's frustration resided in John's armchair in an impeccable suit with an umbrella resting against his thigh.

"I said NO, Mycroft. I don't want to go. It's meaningless, frivolous, and boring. I had to deal with those impossible people while I solved their case, why would I spend even more time with them?" Sherlock gracefully-somehow- threw herself upon the mess that was the sofa and pulled her dressing gown tight around her shoulders. She curled up incredibly close to herself, possibly in an attempt to disappear. Maybe if she could, Mycroft would be forced to leave and never bother her with this ridiculous type of request again. John wondered how could Mycroft could ever believe that Sherlock would voluntarily step foot in a room flooded with -to use one of Sherlock's words- imbeciles.

"You rescued the kidnapped children of one of the wealthiest families in London. They want to properly thank you for your services," Mycroft sighed as though he had made this point several times already; and he most likely had.

John has been in the kitchen at this point, preparing tea for three when he finally caught to what the argument was about. The Von Dop family wanted to honor Sherlock for finding their twin nine-year old daughters. Like Mycroft said, they were one of the wealthiest families in London, and had already paid Sherlock a great deal of money for recovering the girls' location, and now they wanted to host a party his honor? Wow. But a party from people of their stature would be sure to include at least 75 people, but most likely closer to 100, and Sherlock did not bode well in large crowds -as can be predicted. John could easily understand why Sherlock had no desire to attend.

"I purchased a dress just for the occasion that you can wear," Mycroft crooned. And just like that, John knew that Mycroft had Sherlock's attention. A surprising thing about Sherlock is that, in respect to clothing, she was just like most women, if not more susceptible to its allure.

Sherlock unfurled from her ball infinitesimally, curiosity peaked. She narrowed her eyes, "Let me see it." It had to be exquisite or Mycroft wouldn't have bothered to use it as a tool to get her to go.

Mycroft smirked, and sent out a quick text. A few moments later, Anthea walked in -without knocking, John noticed- carrying a floor-length garment bag and a box behind her back.

Sherlock unfurled from the sofa completely and strode over to the dress. She peaked inside, paused, and turned back to Mycroft, hiding her pleasure behind a mask of indifference. "Shoes?" Anthea held out the box in her hand which Sherlock took and lifted the lid. Apparently satisfied, she looked back to Mycroft and made a request -demand disguised as a question- although both Mycroft and John knew Sherlock was in. "Can John come too?"

That surprised John. "Me? But I -uh- I don't have anything suitable to wear, Sherlock," John sputtered, not noticing Mycroft sending another text. A moment later, and another one of Mycroft's assistants walked in unannounced carrying a second garment bag and box. Sherlock smiled slightly, but it was gone quickly. John could tell that she was simultaneously glad of her brother's forethought to bring him a tux, but equally upset that she could be so predictable. The happy little crinkle around her eyes that quickly vanished gave it away. John was no longer surprised that he could identify some of Sherlock's smaller emotions. It came with time; time, experience, and buckets of patience.

John walked over to the assistant, a man this time, and unzipped that bag. He turned over to Mycroft with uncertainty in his eye, "I can't accept this. It's too much."

"Think nothing of it. Sherlock would have snuck one into your closet at some point anyways, why not this one?" Glancing at Sherlock, Mycroft got up from the chair just as elegantly as his sister, and moved towards the front door. "I will come back at nine o'clock. The celebration begins a 9:30. Goodbye, little sister. John."

"Thanks!" John called after the retreating figure. John turned just in time to see one of the largest smiles on Sherlock's face. It was positively radiant, not alarming like the one she uses when a case takes a turn for the gruesome. She bounded out of sitting room and off towards hers like a teenager getting ready for prom. She hung her dress up on her closet door, threw her shoes on the bed, and ran to the bathroom to shower. John placed his own outfit in his room, and returned to the kitchen to make another pot of tea and clean up the Holmes' still full cups. It was only 5:45, John had plenty of time to relax before needing to get in the shower. Plus, Sherlock was most likely going to spend the better part of the next two hours in there.

It was 8:56, Mycroft was due to arrive any minute now, and Sherlock had yet to come out of her room since entering to an hour and a half ago. A moment later, ethereal was a knock at the door, and John answered it, escorting Mycroft to the sitting room to wait for his sister. Mycroft was just as immaculately dressed as always, only this time in a pitch black tuxedo with a white bow tie and white pocket handkerchief. His shoes shined so clearly that John was certain that if he tried, he'd be able to see his reflection out of them. John himself was dressed in a deep black tuxedo with a black bow tie and a sapphire blue pocket handkerchief. Both suits had been tailored to accentuate their owners' best attributes. Mycroft's highlighted his thin frame and slender shoulders, and the trousers were cut to make him look taller. John's jacket hugged his frame making his shoulders look broader, but was tapered in at the waist to show how narrow it actually was. All of his other clothes made him look boxed, this suit did otherwise. And the trousers seemed to do the impossible, they made his short legs look long. He was altogether very pleased with it, but was wondering how the were to his exact measurements until he remembered who he was dealing with.

John went towards Sherlock's room to let her know it was time to go when the door swung open, barely avoiding hitting John on its way. John blinked in surprise and almost tripped over his feet trying to move out of Sherlock's way before she strutted right over him.

John had seen Sherlock dressed up before, but never to this level of sophistication and poise. She had spent her three hours of prep time making herself look even more angelic, if that were even possible. Her make-up was minimalistic -Sherlock preferring to use natural tones instead of dramatic and gaudy ones. Some of her ebony curls fells delicately down her back and around her shoulders while the rest of it was in an elegant twist in the crown of her head, held in place with pearl-studded hairpins. Her dress was a sapphire blue -the exact same shade as John's handkerchief, he noticed- and was floor length with a slit slightly above her knee, giving John a peak of a slender porcelain leg underneath. It was strapless with a sweetheart neckline that showed off her long neck. The looked was completed with a pair of nude-colored pumps.

John's jaw was almost to the ground, but he managed to pull himself together to say, "Wow, Sherlock. You look absolutely stunning!"

"I know I look amazing, it's quite obvious, really. The dress's high waist and shaped neckline accentuate the long ness of both my legs and neck. The color complements my fair skin and dark hair quite nicely, too. People are bound to offer up superfluous and superficial compliments. It really is a masterpiece of a dress, " she nodded in Mycroft's direction, as much of a thank-you that he'll receive.

John shook his head at Sherlock's disregard for his compliment, not noticing that she was attempting to hold back a blush that was delicately flushing her cheeks pink.

Mycroft, unfazed at his sister's bluntness, stepped forth and offered her one more gift: a flat, rectangular box. "For a touch of modesty, perhaps?" he smirked.

Sherlock lifted the lid off the box, and inside was a string of pearls. She handed the box to John, who automatically grabbed it, and turned her back to him, lifting her hair away. A bit shocked, John took out the necklace and clasped it around her neck, catching a whiff of her floral perfume, making his heart beat a tad faster.

John had to almost physically restrain himself from placing a kiss in her neck. Shaking his head, he stepped away and Sherlock turned to face him. He held out his arm for Sherlock to take, which she did. "Shall we be off, then?" he asked with exaggerated chivalry. They followed Mycroft out of the flat and got into the sleek black car that was idling on the curb.


	4. Bare honesty

The time that Sherlock decided that it was time to initiate a physical relationship with John has to be her pinnacle moment of being forward to the extreme.

Sherlock had been planning this moment for months. The timing had to be just right, and now was that time. John goes to Tesco's every week for approximately an hour and a half, give or take 20 minutes for traffic conditions, and today was grocery day. Hopefully John would remember to pick up some of those cinnamon-apple crisps that Sherlock had grown especially fond of.

With John due to return in about 10 minutes, Sherlock got ready.

Sherlock had rearranged the living room so that John's armchair faced the door instead of the towards the fireplace, and the other pieces of furniture were farther back, closer to the wall. She sat down in the chair, in the absolute middle of the room. Even Sherlock had to admit, she was a bit of a drama queen. Everything about this situation spoke of dramatics, but that's what John knew best about Sherlock; she has a flare for climactic moments.

Approximately 18 minutes later, and an accidental run in with Ms. Hudson, Sherlock's shining moment began. John opened the door, arms laden with groceries, mouth open, ready to call out to Sherlock that "No, of course I don't need any help." When he caught sight of Sherlock, however, that sarcastic statement crawled back into the recesses of his mind as his jaw lowered further than before and his eyes widened to the size of saucers. If Sherlock weren't so focused on trying to maintain her seductress persona, the sight would have made her laugh out loud.

When it seemed that John's neurotransmitters connected, and he could finally open his mouth to do something other than gawk and stare, he had to act clueless. "What's -uh- what's happening, Sherlock? What's going on here?" he gestured to Sherlock's form. She was completely naked. Bare as the day she was born, save for the delicate pearl necklace wrapped around her neck.

Sherlock rolled her eyes, when she noticed that John was pointedly not looking at her. She wasn't showing off her delicate bits. She had her legs crossed high in her thighs, and her left arm was stretched across her chest while she leaned on the raised fist of her right. However ridiculous John was being about Sherlock's nude form -'I'm doing it on purpose, John- Sherlock still thought it was endearing that he was so noble. He had a violent flush that was rising from his neck, and rapidly consuming his face, turning it a -lovely- shade of crimson. This made Sherlock smile a bit, and the turmoil going on in her stomach to settle ever so slightly.

Sherlock knew that John was high affected by her attire -or lack thereof. She knew that if she were to get any closer, she would be able to see his pulse thrumming violently in his veins, and see his pupils dilated enormously. From where she was, she could already tell that his breathing had sped up profusely, plus the tell-tale blush. Sherlock predicted that he would not be able to form coherent thought for another moment or two.

Just as the thought went through her mind, John's jaw snapped shut, then opened, as if to speak. When nothing came out, he closed his mouth again, and licked his lips. Sherlock followed the movement with rapt attention hoping to evince her already excessively obvious intentions. They couldn't have been more obvious if they were on a billboard, she thought. John, brilliant John, seemed to get the hint, but decided to go the oblivious route. "Umm...wha-uh-what's going on, Sherlock?" His voice trembled a bit, and he knew Sherlock noticed it for she smirked slightly. He licked his lips again nervously.

Not taking her eyes off John's mouth, Sherlock asked, "What don't you deduce it? You know my methods."

John blinked quickly, most likely trying to clear his mind, and responded, "I'd really rather not start assuming things with you. You know what they say when you assume. And with you, this could be anything." John realized he was rambling and quickly shut up. For all he knew, this could be some sort of experiment to see how fast Sherlock could make someone go into cardiac arrest. Who knows? She's Sherlock bloody Holmes, for Christ's sake.

"Well," Sherlock started, shifting in her seat but remaining -mostly- covered, "if I have to spell it out for you, then so be it. Lately, I've been experiencing these -how shall I put this?-" a pause, and she lowered her voice, "desires. I just cannot get you out of my head, John Watson. You are an enigma of the most interesting and addicting kind. How you managed to stake a permanent claim in my mind is positively astonishing, and terrifying. I find that I rather like that you are possess an entire wing in my mind palace, but it concerns me at the same time. Where everything is in its place and never dares to move, I can't restrict you to one room only. You consume my life." She had started this in her low purr-like voice that visibly made John's knees weak, but, it was steadily becoming shaky and unstable. As though she were nervous. She continued and her voice became strained, "I... I need you John. I need you on cases to keep me grounded, to prove to others and to me that I am human. I need you to force-feed me so that I don't starve. I need to you reprimand me when my deductions get out of hand so that I don't receive a well deserved black eye. I need you... I need to so that I can breathe." Here her voice cracked a bit, and John almost took a step forward to comfort her, but he could tell that Sherlock wasn't finished and wouldn't appreciate being interrupted.

Sherlock rounded up all of her nervousness and fear, and slipped back into her temptress character. "So, to answer your question, John, this is my way initiating the next phase of our relationship. We already act like a couple except for the physical things, and I knew you wouldn't make the first step yourself because of my attitude towards this topic previously." She smirked, remembering the conversation they had on the day they first met, and looked up at John through her long lashes, and John nearly melted into a puddle then and there.

When John failed to speak, Sherlock unfurled from the chair and stalked towards him. Once Sherlock reached John -stepping around the groceries-, she placed her hands on the lapels of his coat as if to adjust them, head bent down towards John's chest, hair falling all around her, curls hanging delicately halfway down her bare back. "So," she started, face still pointed towards John's shirt buttons. "What do you say?" Here she looked up and made eye contact. Verdigris eyes latching onto Egyptian blue. "Wanna leap into the great unknown? Could be dangerous," she smirked, covering her nervousness. She was slightly shaking, fearing that she had read John all wrong, or that she had scared him off with her forward-ness. She was presenting John with her soul, here. There is no way they would recover from this if Joh did not want what Sherlock was gladly offering. She knew that all of her fear was openly displayed in her eyes, and she knew that John saw it all.

John finally choked out, "Oh god yes!" before crashing his lips to hers and bringing both hands to her hair, burying his fingers in those midnight colored locks. He was pouring all of his feelings into this kiss, letting Sherlock know that he was just as frightened as she was. He was just as afraid of the feelings that consumed is very being, but they would do this. Together. It would be alright. She could feel it.

Maneuvering around the abandoned groceries, they stumbled towards Sherlock's room and blissfully, lovingly, fell into each other.

They lay in Sherlock's bed, tangled in the blanket and sheets. John was on his back, running one hand through Sherlock's hair and the other over her back. Sherlock had draped herself over John's chest, not willing to leave, and John unwilling to let her. It was wonderfully peaceful.

It was, until John chuckled quietly. Sherlock looked up at him questioningly. "What?"

"I was just thinking. You are the epitome of Drama Queen. You should have been an actress."

"What? No I'm not," Sherlock said, somewhat offended, sitting up to glare down at John.

"To show that you wanted to take us to the next level, you sat completely starkers in my chair and waited for me for god knows how long to get home. What if it wasn't me?" He smiled, thinking of Ms. Hudson, or god forbid Mycroft, bursting into the flat. The looks on their faces would have been priceless.

"You usually spend approximately an hour an a half when out shopping, including the 20 minute walk there and the five minute taxi ride in the way back. So I had only been waiting for about 15 minutes when you walked in. But, Ms. Hudson did stop by. She received quite and eyeful. And I wasn't completely naked!"

John erupted in laughter at the expense of Ms. Hudson walking in on a naked Sherlock, and then composed himself. "Oh, that's right, the pearls," John fingered said necklace. He pulled on it gently, bringing her within kissing distance. "Pearls are a symbol of modesty, you know?" He placed a chaste peck to her beautiful lips. "But I guess modesty is either too foreign a concept, or too boring," he smiled kissing her again, a little deeper.

Sherlock huffed, and laid back down across John's chest so that he could resume stroking her hair. She knew that he had a point, but didn't care, and didn't want him to know that he was right. She pressed a kiss to his chest, then, somewhat gently, bit down in retaliation. He just chuckled and tugged her up by her hair for a breathless kiss.


End file.
